Precisely at 11.15, the advertised time, the signalman at the Pont
de l'Europe, gave the two regulation blows of the horn, to announce
the Havre express, which issued from the Batignolles tunnel. Soon
afterwards the turn-tables rattled, and the train entered the station
with a short whistle, grating on the brakes, smoking, shining, dripping
with the beating rain that had not ceased since leaving Rouen.
The porters had not yet turned the handles of the doors, when one
of them opened, and Séverine sprang lightly to the platform, before
the train had stopped. Her carriage was at the end. To reach the
locomotive, she had to hurry through the swarm of passengers,
embarrassed by children and packages, who had suddenly left the
compartments. Jacques stood there, erect on the foot-plate, waiting to
go to the engine-house; while Pecqueux wiped the brasswork with a cloth.
"So it is understood," said she, on tiptoe. "I will be at the Rue
Cardinet at three o'clock, and you will have the kindness to introduce
me to your chief, so that I may thank him."
This was the pretext imagined by Roubaud: a visit to the head of the
depôt at Batignolles, to thank him for some vague service he had
rendered. In this manner she would find herself confided to the good
friendship of the driver. She could strengthen the bonds, and exert her
influence over him.
But Jacques, black with coal, drenched with water, exhausted by the
struggle against rain and wind, stared at her with his harsh eyes,
without answering. On leaving Havre, he had been unable to refuse the
request of the husband to look after her; and this idea of finding
himself alone in her company upset him, for he now felt that he was
very decidedly falling in love with her.
"Is that right?" she resumed, smiling, with her sweet, caressing look,
overcoming her surprise and slight repugnance at finding him so dirty,
barely recognisable. "Is that right? I shall rely on your being there."
And, as she raised herself a little higher, resting her gloved hand on
one of the iron handles, Pecqueux obligingly interfered:
"Take care, you will dirty yourself," said he.
Then Jacques had to answer, and he did so in a surly tone.
"Yes, Rue Cardinet, unless I get drowned in this abominable rain. What
horrid weather!"
She felt touched at his wretched appearance, and added, as if he had
suffered solely for her:
"Oh! what a dreadful state you are in! And I was so comfortable. I was
thinking of you, you know; and that deluge of rain quite distressed
me. I felt very pleased at the idea that you were bringing me up this
morning, and would take me back to-night, by the express."
But this familiarity, so tender and so nice, only seemed to trouble him
the more. He appeared relieved when a voice shouted, "Back!" Promptly
he blew the whistle, while the fireman made a sign to the young woman
to stand back.
"At three o'clock!"
"Yes; at three o'clock!"
And as the locomotive moved along, Séverine left the platform, the last
of the passengers. Outside, in the Rue d'Amsterdam, as she was about
to open her umbrella, she was glad to find it had ceased raining. She
walked down to the Place du Havre, where she stood reflecting for an
instant, and at last decided that it would be best to lunch at once.
It was twenty-five minutes past eleven. She stepped into a little
restaurant at the corner of the Rue Saint Lazare, where she ordered a
couple of fried eggs and a cutlet. Then, whilst eating very slowly, she
fell into reflections that had been haunting her for weeks, her face
pale and cloudy, and bereft of its docile, seductive smile.
It was on the previous evening, two days after their examination at
Rouen, that Roubaud, judging it dangerous to wait, had resolved to
send her on a visit to M. Camy-Lamotte, not at the Ministry, but at
his private residence, Rue du Rocher, where he occupied a house close
to that of the late President Grandmorin. She knew she would find him
there at one o'clock, and she did not hurry. She was preparing what she
should say, endeavouring to foresee what he would answer, so as not to
get troubled at anything that might transpire.
The evening before, a new cause of anxiety had hastened her journey.
They had learnt, from gossip at the station, that Madame Lebleu and
Philomène were relating everywhere that the company was going to
dismiss Roubaud, who was considered involved. And the worst of it was
that M. Dabadie, who had been questioned point blank, had not answered
no, which gave considerable weight to the news. From that moment it
became urgent that she should hurry off to Paris to plead their cause,
and particularly to solicit the protection of the powerful personage in
question, as on former occasions she had sought that of the President.
But, apart from this request, which anyhow would serve to explain her
visit, there was a more imperative motive--a burning and insatiable
hankering to know, that hankering which drives the criminal to give
himself away rather than remain ignorant. The uncertainty was killing
them, now that they felt themselves discovered, since Jacques had
told them of the suspicion which the judicial authorities seemed to
entertain of there being an accomplice. They were lost in conjectures:
had the letter been found, the facts established? Hour by hour they
expected a search would be made at their lodgings, that they would be
arrested; and their burden became so heavy, the least occurrence in
their surroundings assumed an air of such alarming menace, that in the
end they preferred the catastrophe to this constant apprehension, to
have a certainty and no longer suffer.
When Séverine had finished her cutlet, she was so absorbed that she
awoke almost with a start to reality, astonished to find herself in a
public room. Everything seemed bitter. Her food stuck in her throat,
and she had no heart to take coffee. Although she had eaten slowly, it
was barely a quarter past twelve, when she left the restaurant. Another
three-quarters of an hour to kill! She who adored Paris, who was so
fond of rambling through the streets, freely, on the rare occasions
when she visited the capital, now felt lost, timid, and was full of
impatience to have done with the place and hide herself. The pavements
were already drying; a warm wind was driving away the last clouds.
Taking the Rue Tronchet, she found herself at the flower-market of the
Madeleine, one of those March markets, all abloom with primroses and
azaleas, in the dull days of expiring winter. She sauntered for half
an hour, amidst this premature spring, resuming her vague reflections,
thinking of Jacques as an enemy whom she must disarm. It seemed to
her that she had paid her visit to the Rue du Rocher, that all had
gone well in that quarter, that the only thing remaining was to ensure
the silence of this man; and this was a complicated undertaking that
bewildered her, and set her head labouring at romantic plans. But these
caused her no worry, no terror; on the contrary she experienced a
sweet, soothing feeling. Then, abruptly, she saw the time by a clock
at a kiosk: ten minutes past one. She had not yet performed her errand;
and, harshly recalled to the agony of reality, she hastened in the
direction of the Rue du Rocher.
The residence of M. Camy-Lamotte was at the corner of this street and
the Rue de Naples, and Séverine had to pass by the house of Grandmorin,
which stood silent, tenantless, and with closed shutters. Raising her
eyes, she hurried on. She recollected her last visit. The great house
towered up, terrible, before her, and when a little further on, she
instinctively turned round, to look behind, like a person pursued by
the shouts of a crowd, she was startled to perceive M. Denizet, the
examining-magistrate at Rouen, who was also coming up the street, on
the opposite side of the way. The thrill she experienced brought her
to a standstill. Had he noticed her casting a glance at the house? He
was walking along quietly, and she allowed him to get ahead of her,
following him in great trouble. She received another shock when she saw
him ring at the corner of the Rue de Naples, at the residence of M.
Camy-Lamotte.
She felt terrified. She would never dare enter now. She turned on her
heel, cut through the Rue d'Edimbourg, and descended as far as the
Pont de l'Europe. It was not until then, that she felt herself secure.
And, quite distracted, not knowing where to go nor what to do, she
leant motionless against one of the balustrades, gazing below, across
the iron sheds, at the vast station, where the trains were constantly
performing evolutions. She followed them with her anxious eyes. She
thought the magistrate must assuredly have gone to see M. Camy-Lamotte
on this business, that the two men were talking about her, and that her
fate was being settled at that very minute.
Then, in despair, she was tormented by the desire to cast herself at
once under a train rather than return to the Rue du Rocher. Just then
a train was issuing from beneath the iron marquee of the main lines.
She watched it coming and pass below her, puffing in her face a tepid
cloud of white steam. Then the stupid uselessness of her journey, the
frightful anguish she would carry away with her, should she fail to
have the energy to go and find out something certain, were impressed on
her mind with such vigour, that she gave herself five minutes to gain
courage.
Engines were whistling. Her eyes followed a small one, branching
off a train that served the environs; and, then looking up towards
the left, she recognised above the courtyard of the small parcels
department, at the very top of the house in the Impasse d'Amsterdam,
the window of Mother Victoire--that window on whose rail she again saw
herself leaning with her husband, before the abominable scene that
had caused their calamity. This brought home to her the danger of her
position with such a keen pang of pain, that she suddenly felt ready
to encounter anything, to put an end to the business. The blasts of
the horn, and the prolonged rumbling noise deafened her, while thick
smoke flying over the great, clear, Parisian sky, barred the horizon.
And she again took the road to the Rue du Rocher, wending her way with
the feelings of a person going to commit suicide, stepping out with
precipitation, in sudden fear lest she might find no one there.
When Séverine had touched the bell a renewed feeling of terror turned
her icy cold. But a footman, after taking her name, had already offered
her a seat in an antechamber; and through the doors, gently set ajar,
she very distinctly heard the lively conversation of two voices. Then
followed profound and absolute silence. She could distinguish naught
but the dull throbbing of her temples. And she said to herself that the
magistrate must still be in conference, and that she would no doubt be
kept waiting a long time; and this idea of waiting seemed intolerable.
All at once, she met with a surprise; the footman came to her, and
showed her in. The magistrate had certainly not gone. She conjectured
he was there, hidden behind a door.
She found herself in a large study, with black furniture, a thick
carpet, and heavy door-hangings, so severe and so completely closed,
that not a sound from the outside could penetrate within. Nevertheless,
there were some flowers, some pale roses in a bronze corbeil, and
this indicated a sort of concealed grace, a taste for amiable life
beneath all this severity. The master of the house was on his feet,
very correctly attired in a frock-coat; he also looked severe with his
pinched face, which his greyish whiskers rendered slightly fuller. But
he had all the elegance of a former beau who had remained slim, and a
demeanour that one felt would be pleasant, freed from the stiffness
that his official position made him assume. In the subdued light of the
apartment, he looked very tall.
Séverine, on entering, felt oppressed by the close atmosphere caused
by the hangings, and she saw no one but M. Camy-Lamotte, who watched
her approach. He made no motion to invite her to be seated, and he was
careful not to open his mouth the first, waiting for her to explain the
motive of her visit. This prolonged the silence. But, as the result of
a violent reaction, she all at once found she was mistress of herself
in the peril, and remained very calm, and very prudent.
"Sir," said she, "you will excuse me if I make so bold as to come
and solicit your goodwill. You are aware of the irreparable loss I
have suffered, and, abandoned as I now am, I have had the courage to
think of you to defend us, to continue to give us a little of the same
support as your friend, my deeply regretted protector."
M. Camy-Lamotte was then obliged to wave his hand to a seat, for she
had spoken in a strain that was perfect, without exaggerated humility
or grief, with the innate art of feminine hypocrisy; but he still
maintained silence. He had himself sat down, still waiting. Seeing she
must explain, she continued:
"Allow me to refresh your memory by reminding you that I have had the
honour of seeing you at Doinville. Ah! those were happy days for me! At
present, bad times have come, and I have no one but you, sir. I implore
you, in the name of him we have lost, you who were his intimate friend,
to complete his good work, to take his place beside us."
He listened, he looked at her, and all his suspicions were wavering;
she seemed so natural, so charming in her expressions of regret and
supplication. It had struck him that the letter he had found among
the papers of Grandmorin, those two unsigned lines, could only have
come from her, whom he knew to be intimate with the President, and
just now the mere mention of her visit had completely convinced him.
He had only interrupted his interview with the magistrate, to confirm
his conviction. But how could he think her guilty seeing her as she
appeared--so quiet and so sweet?
He wished to set his mind at rest. And while maintaining an air of
severity, he said:
"Tell me what it is all about, madam. I remember perfectly. I shall
only be too happy to be of use to you, if there is no impediment."
Séverine then related, very plainly, that her husband was threatened
with dismissal. They were very jealous of him on account of his merit,
and of the high patronage which hitherto had covered him. Now, thinking
him without support, they hoped to triumph, and redoubled their
efforts. Nevertheless, she mentioned no names. She spoke in measured
terms in spite of the imminent peril. For her to have decided on making
the journey to Paris, she must have been convinced of the necessity
of acting as rapidly as possible. Perhaps to-morrow it would be no
longer time; it was immediately that she required help and succour.
She related all this with such an abundance of logical facts, and good
reasons, that it seemed to him really impossible that she should have
taken the trouble to come up with any other object.
M. Camy-Lamotte studied her even to the slight, almost imperceptible
quiver of her lips, and he struck the first blow.
"But why should the company dismiss your husband? They have nothing
grave to reproach him with," said he.
Neither did her eyes leave him. She sat watching the faintest lines on
his face, wondering if he had found the letter; and, notwithstanding
the apparent innocence of the question, she abruptly became convinced
that the letter was there, in one of the pieces of furniture in that
study. He knew all about it, for he had set a trap for her, anxious
to learn whether she would dare mention the real reasons for his
dismissal. Moreover, he had too forcibly accentuated his tone, and she
felt herself probed to the innermost recesses of her being, by his
sparkless eyes of a worn-out man.
Bravely she advanced to the peril.
"Dear me, sir!" she said; "it sounds very monstrous, but they suspected
us of killing our benefactor, on account of that unfortunate will. We
had no difficulty in proving our innocence, only there always remains
something of these abominable accusations, and the company no doubt
fears the scandal."
He was again surprised, thrown off his guard, by this frankness,
particularly by the sincerity of her accent. Besides, having at first
glance considered her face merely passable, he began to find her
extremely seductive, with the complacent submissiveness of her blue
eyes, set off by the energy of her raven hair. She was really very
charming, very refined, and he allowed the smile of an amateur of
feminine charms, no longer interested in such matters, to mingle with
the grand, cold manner of the functionary who had such a disagreeable
affair on his hands.
But Séverine, with the bravado of the woman who feels her strength, had
the imprudence to add:
"Persons like ourselves do not kill for money. There would have been
some other motive, and there was none."
He looked at her, and saw the corners of her mouth quiver. It was
she. Thenceforth his conviction was absolute. And she understood,
immediately, that she had given herself up, at the way in which he
had ceased to smile, and at his nervously pinched chin. She felt
like fainting, as if all her being was abandoning her. Nevertheless,
she remained on her chair, her bust straight. She heard her voice
continuing to converse in the same even tone, uttering the words it was
necessary to say. The conversation pursued its course; but, henceforth,
neither had anything further to learn. He had the letter. It was she
who had written it.
"Madam," he at last resumed, "I do not refuse to intercede with the
company, if you are really worthy of interest. It so happens that I am
expecting the traffic-manager this afternoon, on some other business.
Only, I shall require a few notes. Look here, just write me down the
name, the age, the record of service, of your husband; briefly, all
that is necessary to post me up in regard to your position."
And he pushed a small occasional-table towards her, ceasing to look at
her, so as not to frighten her too much. She shuddered. He wanted a
page of her handwriting, in order to compare it with the letter. For a
moment she despairingly sought a pretext, resolved not to write. Then
she reflected: what was the good of that, as he knew? It would be easy
to obtain a few lines she had penned. Without any visible discomposure,
in the simplest manner in the world, she wrote down what he asked
her for; while he, standing up behind her, recognised the writing
perfectly, although taller and less shaky than that in the note. And
he ended by thinking this slim little woman very brave. He smiled
again, now she was unable to see him, with that smile of the man who
is no longer touched by anything, save the charm, and whom experience
in everything has made insouciant. After all, it was not worth the
trouble to be just. He only watched over the decorative part of the
régime he served.
"Very well, madam," said he, "give me this. I will make inquiries; I
will do the best I can."
"I am very much obliged to you, sir," she answered. "So you will see
that my husband is maintained in his position? I may consider the
affair arranged?"
"Ah! no, indeed!" he exclaimed; "I bind myself to nothing. I shall have
to see, to think the matter over."
In fact he was hesitating. He did not know what course he would follow
in regard to the couple. And she was in anguish, since she felt herself
at his mercy: this hesitation, this alternative of being saved or
ruined by him, without being able to guess the reasons that would
influence him in his decision, drove her crazy.
"Oh! sir! think how tormented we are! You will not let me leave without
a certainty," she pleaded.
"Indeed, madam, I can do nothing. You must wait," said he.
He led her to the door. She was going away in despair, beside herself,
on the point of confessing everything, openly, feeling the immediate
necessity of forcing him to say distinctly what he intended doing with
them. To remain a minute longer, hoping to find a subterfuge, she
exclaimed:
"Ah! I forgot! I wished to ask your advice about that wretched will. Do
you think we ought to refuse the legacy?"
"The law is on your side," he prudently answered. "It is a matter of
appreciation, and of circumstances."
She was on the threshold of the door, and she made a final effort.
"Sir," said she, "do not allow me to leave thus! Tell me if I may hope."
With a gesture of abandonment, she had seized his hand. He drew it
away. But she looked at him with her beautiful eyes so ardent with
prayer, that he was stirred.
"Very well, then, return here at five o'clock. Perhaps I may have
something to tell you."
She went off. She quitted the house in still greater agony than on
entering it. The situation had become clear, her fate remained in
suspense. She was threatened with arrest which might take place at
once. How could she keep alive until five o'clock? Suddenly she thought
of Jacques, whom she had forgotten. He was another who might be her
ruin, if they took her in charge! Although it was barely half-past two,
she hastened to ascend the Rue du Rocher, in the direction of the Rue
Cardinet.
M. Camy-Lamotte, left alone, stood before his writing-table. A familiar
figure at the Tuileries, where his functions as chief secretary to
the Ministry of Justice, caused him to be summoned almost daily, as
powerful as the Minister himself, and even entrusted with more delicate
duties, he was aware how irritating and alarming this Grandmorin
case proved in high quarters. The opposition newspapers continued to
carry on a noisy campaign; some accusing the police of being so busy
with political business, that they had no time to arrest murderers;
the others, probing the life of the President, gave their readers to
understand that he belonged to the Court, where the lowest kind of
debauchery prevailed; and this campaign really became disastrous, as
the time for the elections approached. And so it had been formally
intimated to the chief secretary, that he must bring the business to a
termination as rapidly as possible, no matter how. The Minister, having
relieved himself of this delicate affair by passing it on to him, he
found himself sole arbiter of the decision to be taken, but on his own
responsibility, it is true; a matter that required looking into, for he
had no idea of paying for the others, should he prove inexpert.
M. Camy-Lamotte, still thinking, went and opened the door of the
adjoining room where M. Denizet was waiting. And the latter, who had
overheard everything, exclaimed on entering:
"What did I say? It is wrong to suspect those people. This woman is
evidently only thinking of saving her husband from possible dismissal.
She did not utter a single word that could arouse suspicion."
The chief secretary did not answer at once. All absorbed, his eyes
on the magistrate, struck by his heavy, thin-lipped face, he was now
thinking of that magistracy, which he held in his hand, as occult chief
of its members, and he felt astonished that it was still so worthy
in its poverty, so intelligent in its professional torpidity. But
really, this gentleman, however sharp he might fancy himself, with his
eyes veiled with thick lids, was tenacious in his conviction, when he
thought he had got hold of the truth.
"So," resumed M. Camy-Lamotte, "you persist in believing in the guilt
of this Cabuche?"
M. Denizet started in astonishment.
"Oh! certainly!" said he; "everything is against him! I enumerated
the proofs to you. I may say they are classic, for not one is
wanting. I did not fail to look for an accomplice, a woman in the
coupé, as you suggested. This seemed to agree with the evidence of a
driver, a man who caught a glimpse of the murder scene. But skilfully
cross-questioned by me, this man did not persist in his first
statement, and he even recognised the travelling-rug, as being the dark
bundle he had referred to. Oh! yes; Cabuche is certainly the culprit,
and the more so, as, if we cannot fix it on him, we have no one else."
Up to then, the chief secretary had delayed bringing the written proof
he possessed to the knowledge of the magistrate; and now that he had
formed a conviction, he was still less eager to establish the truth.
What was the use of upsetting the false clue of the prosecution, if the
real clue was to lead to greater embarrassments? All this would have
to be considered in the first instance.
"Very well," he resumed, with that smile of the worn-out man, "I am
willing to admit you are right. I only sent for you for the purpose of
discussing certain grave points. This is an exceptional case, and it
has now become quite political; you feel this, do you not? We shall
therefore, perhaps, find ourselves compelled to act as government men.
Come, frankly, this girl, the sweetheart of Cabuche, was victimised,
eh?"
The magistrate gave the pout of a cunning fellow, whilst his eyes
became half lost in his lids.
"If you ask me," said he, "I think the President put her in a great
fright, and this will assuredly come out at the trial. Moreover, if
the defence is entrusted to a lawyer of the opposition, we may expect
a regular avalanche of tiresome tales; for there is no lack of these
stories down there, in our part of the country."
This Denizet was not so stupid when free from the routine of the
profession, where he soared on high in his unlimited perspicacity and
mighty power. He understood why he had been summoned to the private
residence of the chief secretary, in preference to the Ministry of
Justice.
"Briefly," concluded he, seeing that M. Camy-Lamotte did not open his
mouth, "we shall have a rather nasty business."
The chief secretary confined himself to tossing his head. He was
engaged in calculating the results of the trial of the Roubauds. It was
a dead certainty that if the husband were brought up at the assizes, he
would relate all: how his wife had been led astray, she also, when a
young girl, and the intrigues that followed, and the jealous rage that
had urged him on to murder, without taking into consideration that,
in this instance, it was not a question of a domestic and a convicted
criminal. This assistant station-master, married to this pretty woman,
would mix up a number of people of independent means, and others
connected with the railways, in the business. Then, who could tell
where the affairs of a man like the President would lead them? They
might perhaps fall into unforeseen abominations. No, decidedly; the
case against the Roubauds, the real culprits, was more objectionable
than the other. He had made up his mind; he put it absolutely aside. If
they had to choose between the two, he was in favour of proceeding with
the prosecution of the innocent Cabuche.
"I give in to your theory," he at last said to M. Denizet. "There are,
indeed, strong presumptions against the quarryman, if so be he had a
legitimate vengeance to satisfy; but all this is very sad, and what a
quantity of mud will be thrown about! Of course I know that justice
should remain indifferent to consequences, and that, soaring above the
interests----"
He concluded his phrase with a gesture, while the magistrate, silent in
turn, awaited with gloomy countenance, the orders he felt were coming.
From the moment they accepted his idea of the truth--that creation of
his own intelligence, he was ready to sacrifice the idea of justice to
the requirements of the government. But the secretary, notwithstanding
his usual dexterity in this kind of transaction, hastened on a little,
spoke too rapidly, like a chief in the habit of being obeyed.
"Finally, what is desired is that you should desist from further
proceedings," said he. "Arrange matters so that the case may be
shelved."
"Excuse me, sir," answered M. Denizet, "I am no longer master of the
case; it rests with my conscience."
At once M. Camy-Lamotte smiled, becoming correct again, with an easy
and polite bearing that seemed full of mockery.
"No doubt; and it is to your conscience that I appeal. I leave you to
take the decision it may dictate, convinced that you will equitably
weigh both sides, in view of the triumph of healthy doctrines, and
public morality. You know, better than I can tell you, that it is
sometimes heroic to accept one evil, rather than fall into another
that is worse. Briefly, one only appeals to you as a good citizen, an
upright man. No one thinks of interfering with your independence, and
that is why I repeat that you are absolute master in the matter, as,
for that matter, it has been provided by law."
Jealous of this illimited power, particularly when prepared to make a
bad use of it, the magistrate welcomed each of these sentences with a
nod of satisfaction.
"Besides," continued the other, redoubling his good grace, with an
exaggeration that was becoming sarcastic, "we know whom we address. We
have long been watching your efforts; and I may tell you that we should
call you without delay to Paris, were there a vacancy."
M. Denizet made a movement. What was this? If he rendered the service
required of him, they would not satisfy his great ambition, his dream
of a seat at Paris. But M. Camy-Lamotte, who understood, lost no time
in adding:
"Your place is marked. It is a question of time. Only, as I have
commenced to be indiscreet, I am happy to be able to tell you that your
name is down for the cross, on the Emperor's next fête-day."
The magistrate reflected a moment. He would have preferred advancement,
for he reckoned that it carried with it an increase of about 166
frcs., or £6 16_s._, a month in salary. And, in the decent misery in
which he lived, this meant greater comfort, his wardrobe renewed, his
servant Mélanie better fed, and in consequence better tempered; but
the cross, nevertheless, was worth having. Then, he had a promise.
And he, who would not have sold himself, nurtured in the tradition of
this magistracy, upright and mediocre, he at once yielded to a simple
hope, to the vague promise that the administration made to favour him.
The judicial function was nothing more than a trade like others, and
he bore along the burden of advancement, in the quality of a humble
solicitant, ever ready to bend to the orders of authority.
"I feel very much touched at the honour," he murmured. "Kindly say so
to the Minister."
He had risen, feeling that anything they might add, would cause
uneasiness.
"So," he concluded, his eyes dim, his face expressionless, "I shall
complete my inquiry, bearing your scruples in mind. Of course, if we
have not absolute proof against this Cabuche, it would be better not
to risk the useless scandal of a trial. He shall be set at liberty and
watched."
The chief secretary, on the threshold of his study, made a final
display of effusive amiability.
"Monsieur Denizet," said he, "we entirely rely on your great tact and
high rectitude."
M. Camy-Lamotte, alone again, had the curiosity which, however,
was useless, now, to compare the page penned by Séverine with the
unsigned note he had found among the papers of President Grandmorin.
The resemblance proved complete. He folded up the letter and put it
carefully away, for, if he had not breathed a word about it to the
examining-magistrate, he nevertheless considered such an arm worth
keeping. And as he recalled the profile of this little woman, so
delicate, and yet so strong in her nervous resistance, he gave an
indulgent, mocking shrug of the shoulders. Ah! those creatures, when
they mean it!
When Séverine reached the Rue Cardinet at twenty minutes to three, to
keep her appointment with Jacques, she found herself before her time.
He occupied a small room right at the top of a great house, to which he
only ascended at night for the purpose of sleeping. And he slept out
twice a week, on the two nights he passed at Havre, between the evening
and morning express. On that particular day, however, drenched with
rain, broken down with fatigue, he had gone there and thrown himself on
his bed. So that Séverine would perhaps have waited for him in vain,
had not a quarrel in an adjoining apartment, a husband brutalising his
shrieking wife, awakened him. He had washed and dressed in a very bad
humour, having recognised her below, on the pavement, while looking out
of his garret window.
"So it's you at last!" she exclaimed, when she saw him issue from the
front door. "I was afraid I had misunderstood. You really did tell me
at the corner of the Rue Saussure----"
And without awaiting his answer, raising her eyes to the house, she
remarked:
"So it's there you live?"
Without telling her, he had made the appointment before his own door,
because the depôt where they had to go together, was opposite. But her
question worried him. He imagined she was going to take advantage of
their good fellowship, to ask him to let her see his room, which was so
simply furnished, and in such disorder, that he felt ashamed of it.
"Oh! I don't live there!" he replied; "I perch. Let us be quick, I am
afraid the chief may have already gone out!"
And so it happened, for when they presented themselves at the small
house which the latter occupied behind the depôt, within the station
walls, they did not find him. In vain they went from shed to shed,
everywhere they were told to return at about half-past four, if they
wished to be sure of catching him at the repairing workshops.
"Very well, we will return," said Séverine.
Then, when she was again outside, alone in the company of Jacques, she
remarked:
"If you are free, perhaps you will not mind if I remain and wait with
you?"
He could not refuse; and, moreover, notwithstanding the gloomy anxiety
she caused, she exercised such a great and ever-increasing charm over
him, that the sullen attitude he had made up his mind to observe,
vanished at her sweet glances. This one, with her long, tender, timid
face, must love like a faithful hound, whom one would not even have the
courage to thrash.
"Of course I shall not leave you," he answered, in a less surly tone;
"only we have more than an hour to get through. Would you like to go to
a café?"
She smiled, delighted to find him more cordial. Vivaciously she
protested:
"Oh! no, no; I don't want to shut myself up! I prefer walking on your
arm through the streets, anywhere you like."
And gracefully she took his arm of her own accord. Now that he was free
from the dirt of the journey, she thought him superior-looking, in
his attire of a clerk in easy circumstances, and with his gentlemanly
bearing, enhanced by a look of independent pride, due to his life
in the open air and the daily habit of facing danger. She had never
noticed so distinctly that he was handsome, with his regular, round
countenance, and his black moustache on a white skin. His fleeting
eyes, those eyes studded with golden sparks, which turned away from
her, alone continued to cause her distrust. If he avoided looking her
straight in the face, was it because he would not bind himself to
anything, because he wished to retain his freedom to act as he pleased,
even against her?
From that moment, in her uncertainty as to his intentions, shuddering
each time she thought of that study in the Rue du Rocher where her
life lay in the balance, she had but one aim--to feel that this man,
who gave her his arm, belonged to her entirely; to obtain, that when
she raised her head, his eyes should look deeply into her own. Then he
would be her property. She did not love him; she did not even think
of such a thing. She was simply doing her utmost to make him her
creature, so that she need fear him no more.
They walked for a few minutes without speaking, amid the continual
stream of passers-by who obstruct this populous quarter. Ever and anon
they were compelled to leave the pavement; they crossed the road among
the vehicles. Then they found themselves at the Square des Batignolles,
which is almost deserted at this time of year. The sky, cleansed by
the deluge of the morning, wore a tint of very soft blue, and the
lilac-bushes were budding in the gentle March sun.
"Shall we go into the garden?" inquired Séverine. "All this crowd makes
me giddy."
Jacques had intended entering the enclosure of his own accord,
unconscious of his desire to have her more to himself, far from the
multitude of people.
"As you like," said he. "Let us go in."
Slowly they continued walking beside the grass, between the leafless
trees. A few women were out with babies in long clothes, and persons
were hurrying across the garden to make a short cut. Jacques and
Séverine took the brook at a stride, and ascended among the rocks.
Then, retracing their steps, not knowing where to go, they passed
through a cluster of pines, whose lasting dark green foliage shone in
the sun. And there, in this solitary corner, stood a bench hidden from
view. They sat down, without even consulting one another this time, as
if they had agreed to come to that spot.
"It is lovely weather," she remarked after a silence.
"Yes," he replied; "the sun has made its appearance again."
But their thoughts were elsewhere. He, who fled women, had been
reflecting on the events that had drawn him to this one. She sat there,
touching him, threatening to invade his existence, and he experienced
endless surprise. Since the last examination at Rouen, he no longer
had any doubt. This woman was an accomplice in the murder at La
Croix-de-Maufras. How was it? As the result of what circumstances?
Urged to the crime by what passion, or what interest? He had asked
himself these questions, without being able to answer them clearly.
Nevertheless, he had ended by arranging a version: the husband,
avaricious and violent, yearned to get possession of the legacy;
perhaps he feared the will might be altered to their disadvantage;
perhaps he wished to attach his wife to him by a sanguinary bond.
And he clung to this version. The obscure parts of it interested him
without him seeking to elucidate them.
The idea that it was his duty to unbosom himself to justice, had also
haunted him. It was this idea, indeed, that had been engaging his
attention since he had found himself seated on that bench close to
Séverine, so close that he could feel the warmth of her form against
his own.
"It's astonishing," he resumed, "to be able to remain out of doors like
this, in the month of March, just as in summer."
"Oh!" said she, "as soon as the sun ascends, it is delightful!"
And, on her side, she reflected that this man would have been an idiot,
had he not guessed them the culprits. They had been too eager to force
themselves on him, and at this very moment she continued to press too
close to him. And so, in the silence broken by empty phrases, she
followed his reflections.
Their eyes had met. She had just read in his, that he had come to the
point of inquiring of himself whether it was not she whom he had seen,
weighing with all her weight on the legs of the victim, like a dark
bundle. What could she do? what could she say, to bind him to her by an
inseverable bond?
"This morning," she remarked, "it was very cold at Havre."
"Without taking into account," said he, "all the rain that fell."
At that instant, Séverine had an abrupt inspiration. She did not
reason, she did not think the matter over; it came to her like an
instinctive impulsion from the obscure depths of her intelligence and
heart. Had she thought about it, she would have said nothing. She
simply felt the idea was good, and that by speaking she would conquer
him.
Gently she took his hand. She looked at him. The cluster of green trees
hid them from the pedestrians in the neighbouring streets. They only
heard a distant rumble of vehicles that came deadened to this sunny
solitude of the square. Alone, at the bend of the path, a child played
in silence, filling a small pail with sand with a wooden spade. Without
wavering in her idea, with all her soul, and in a low voice she put
this question to him:
"You believe me guilty?"
He slightly trembled, and looked into her eyes.
"Yes," he answered, in the same low, unsteady tone.
Then she pressed his hand, which she had retained, in a tighter clasp.
But she did not continue speaking at once. She felt their feverish
warmth mingling in one.
"You are mistaken," she resumed; "I am not guilty."
She did not say this to convince him, but simply to warn him that she
must be innocent in the eyes of others. It was the avowal of the woman
who says no, desiring it to be no, in spite of all, and always.
"I am not guilty," she added. "You will not continue to pain me by
believing I am guilty?"
And she was very happy to see his eyes gazing deeply into her own.
Without doubt what she had just said, was equivalent to selling herself
to him, for she gave herself away, and later on, if he claimed her, she
could not refuse. But the bond was tied between them, and could not be
severed. She absolutely defied him to speak now. He belonged to her, as
she belonged to him. The avowal had united them.
"You will not cause me any more pain?" she asked. "You believe me?"
"Yes, I believe you," he replied, smiling.
What need was there to force her to talk brutally of this frightful
event? Later on, she would tell him all about it, if she wished to do
so. This way of tranquillising herself by confessing to him, without
saying anything, touched him deeply, as a proof of infinite tenderness.
She was so confiding, so fragile, with her gentle blue eyes. She
appeared to him so womanly, devoted to man, ever ready to submit to him
so as to be happy. And what delighted him above all else, while their
hands remained joined and their eyes never parted, was to find himself
free from his disorder, the frightful shiver that agitated him when
beside a woman. Could he love this one, without killing her?
"You know I am your friend, and that you have naught to fear from me,"
he murmured in her ear. "I do not want to know your business. It shall
be as you please, you understand. Make any use of me you like."
He had approached so close to her face that he felt her warm breath in
his moustache. That morning, even, he would have trembled at such a
thing, in the wild terror of an attack. What could be passing within
him, that he barely felt a thrill, attended by the pleasant lassitude
of convalescence? This idea that she had killed a fellow creature,
which had now become a certainty, made her appear different in his
eyes--greater, a person apart. Perhaps she had not merely assisted, but
had also struck. He felt convinced of it, without the slightest proof.
And, henceforth, she seemed sacred to him, beyond all reasoning.
Both of them now chatted gaily, as a couple just met, with whom love is
commencing.
"You should give me your other hand," said he, "for me to warm it."
"Oh! no, not here," she protested. "We might be seen."
"Who by, as we are alone?" he inquired. "And, besides, there would be
no harm in it," he added.
She laughed frankly in her joy at being saved. She did not love this
man, she thought she was quite sure of that; and, indeed, if she
had involved herself, she was already thinking of a way out of the
difficulty. He looked nice; he would not torment her; everything could
be arranged beautifully.
"We are comrades, that's settled," said she; "and neither my husband
nor anyone else shall interfere. Now, let go of my hand, and do not
keep on staring at me like that, because you will spoil your eyes!"
But he detained her delicate fingers between his own, and very lowly he
stammered:
"You know I love you."
Sharply she freed herself with a slight jerk; and, standing before the
bench, where he remained seated, she exclaimed:
"What nonsense, indeed! Conduct yourself properly; someone is coming!"
A wet-nurse appeared, with her baby asleep in her arms. Then a young
girl passed along in a great hurry. The sun was sinking, disappearing
on the horizon in a violescent mist, and its rays vanished from the
grass, dying away in golden dust beside the green patch of pines. A
sudden pause came in the continual rumble of vehicles. Five o'clock was
heard striking at a neighbouring clock.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Séverine. "Five o'clock, and I have an
appointment in the Rue du Rocher!"
Her joy departed, back came the agony of the unknown awaiting her
there, and she remembered she was not yet saved. She turned quite pale,
and her lip quivered.
"But you have to see the chief of the depôt," said Jacques.
"It cannot be helped!" she replied; "I must pay him a visit another
time. Listen, my friend, I will not keep you any longer. Let me go
quickly on my errand. And thanks again, thanks from the bottom of my
heart."
She squeezed his hand, and hurried off.
"By-and-bye at the train," he called after her.
"Yes, by-and-bye," she answered.
She was already walking rapidly away, and soon disappeared among the
clusters of shrubs; whilst he proceeded leisurely, in the direction of
the Rue Cardinet.
M. Camy-Lamotte had just had a long interview in his study, with the
traffic-manager of the Western Railway Company. Summoned under pretext
of some other business, the latter had ended by admitting that the
company felt very much annoyed at this Grandmorin case. First of all,
came the complaints of the newspapers, in regard to the little security
enjoyed by first-class passengers. Then all the staff were mixed
up in the drama. Several of their servants were suspected, without
counting this Roubaud, who appeared the most involved, and who might
be arrested at any moment. The rumours of the irregular mode of life
of the President, who had a seat on the board of directors, seemed to
bespatter the whole board. And it was thus that the presumed crime of
an insignificant assistant station-master, attributed to some shady,
low, and nauseous intrigue, threatened to disorganise the management of
an important railway enterprise.
The shock had even been felt in higher places. It had gained the
Ministry, menaced the State at a moment of political uneasiness. It
was a critical time, when the slightest effervescence might hasten the
downfall of the Empire.
So when M. Camy-Lamotte heard from his visitor, that the company had
that morning decided to dismiss Roubaud, he energetically opposed
the measure. No! no! nothing could be more clumsy! The rumpus in
the press would increase, should the writers take it into their
heads to set up the assistant station-master as a political victim.
Everything would be rent from top to bottom, and heaven only knew
what unpleasant revelations would be made about one and another! The
scandal had lasted too long, and must be put an end to at once. And the
traffic-manager, convinced, had undertaken to maintain Roubaud in his
post, and not even to remove him from Havre. It would soon be seen that
there were no disreputable people on their staff. It was all over. The
matter would be shelved.
When Séverine, out of breath, her heart beating violently, found
herself once more in the severe study in the Rue du Rocher, before
M. Camy-Lamotte, the latter contemplated her an instant in silence,
interested at the extraordinary effort she made to appear calm. He
certainly felt sympathy for this delicate criminal with the soft blue
eyes.
"Well, madam----" he began.
And he paused to enjoy her anxiety a few seconds longer. But her look
was so profound, he felt her casting herself before him in such a
burning desire to learn her fate that he had pity.
"Well, madam," he resumed, "I've seen the traffic-manager, and have
persuaded him not to dismiss your husband. The matter is settled."
Then, in the flood of joy that overwhelmed her, she broke down. Her
eyes were full of tears; but she answered nothing. She only smiled.
He repeated what he had said, laying stress on the phrase, to convey to
her all its significance:
"The matter is settled; you can return in tranquillity to Havre!"
She heard well enough: he meant to say that they would not be arrested,
that they were pardoned. It was not merely the position maintained, it
was the horrible drama forgotten, buried. With an instinctive caressing
movement, like a pretty, domestic animal that thanks and fawns, she
bent over his hands, kissed them, kept them pressed to her cheeks.
And this time, very much troubled himself at the tender charm of her
gratitude, he did not withdraw them.
"Only," he continued, trying to resume his severity, "do not forget,
and behave properly."
"Oh! sir!" she exclaimed.
In the desire to have them both at his mercy, he alluded to the letter.
"Remember that the papers remain there, and that at the least fault,
the matter will be brought up again. Above all, advise your husband not
to meddle in politics. On that point we shall be pitiless. I know he
has already given cause for complaint; they spoke to me of an annoying
quarrel with the sub-prefect. It seems that he passes for a republican,
which is detestable, is it not? Let him behave himself, or we shall
simply suppress him."
She was standing up, anxious now to be outside, to give room to the joy
she felt stifling her.
"Sir," she answered, "we shall obey you; we will do as you please; no
matter when, nor where. You have only to command."
He began to smile again, in his weary way, with just a tinge of that
disdain of a man who has taken a long draught at the cup of all things,
and drained it dry.
He opened the door of his study to her. On the landing, she turned
round twice, and with her visage beaming, thanked him again.
Once in the Rue du Rocher, Séverine walked along without giving a
thought to where she was going. All at once, she perceived she was
ascending the street to no purpose. Turning round, she descended the
slope, crossed the road with no object, at the risk of being knocked
down. She felt she wanted to move about, to gesticulate, to shout. She
already understood why they had been pardoned, and she caught herself
saying:
"Of course! They are afraid; there is no fear of them stirring up the
business. I was a great fool to give myself all that torture. It was
evident they would do nothing. Ah! what luck! Saved, saved for good
this time! But no matter, I mean to frighten my husband, so as to make
him keep quiet. Saved, saved! What luck!"
As she turned into the Rue St. Lazare, she saw by a clock at the shop
of a jeweller, that it wanted twenty minutes to six.
"By Jove! I'll stand myself a good dinner. I have time," said she to
herself.
Opposite the station she picked out the most luxurious-looking
restaurant; and, seated alone at a small table, with snow-white
cloth, against the undraped plate-glass window, intensely amused
at the movement in the street, she ordered a nice meal: oysters,
filets-de-sole, and the wing of a roast fowl. She was well entitled to
make up for a bad lunch. She ate with a first rate appetite, found the
bread, made of the finest flour--the pain-de-gruau--exquisite; and she
had some beignets soufflés prepared for her, by way of sweets. Then,
when she had taken her coffee, she hurried off, for she had only a few
minutes left to catch the express.
Jacques, on leaving her, after paying a visit to his room to put on his
working-garments, had at once made his way to the depôt, where, as a
rule, he never showed himself until half an hour before the departure
of his locomotive. He had got into the habit of relying on Pecqueux
to inspect the engine, notwithstanding that the latter was in drink
two days out of three. But on that particular evening, in his tender
emotion, he unconsciously felt a scruple. He wished to make sure, with
his own eyes, that all the parts of the engine were in thorough working
order; and the more so, as in the morning, on the way from Havre, he
fancied he had noticed an increased expenditure of strength, for less
work.
Among the other locomotives at rest in the vast engine-house, into
which daylight penetrated through tall, dusty windows, the one driven
by Jacques was already at the head of a line, and destined to leave
the first. A fireman belonging to the depôt, had just made up the fire,
and red-hot cinders were falling below into the ash-pit.
It was one of those express engines with double axle-trees coupled
together, of delicate elegance, and gigantic build; with its great,
light wheels united by steel arms, its broad chest, its elongated and
mighty loins, conceived with all that logic and all that certainty,
which make up the sovereign beauty of these metal beings--precision
with strength. Like the other locomotives of the Western Company, this
one bore the name of a railway-station as well as a number, that of
Lison, a town in lower Normandy. But Jacques, in affection, had turned
the word into a woman's name, by setting the feminine article before
it--La Lison, as he called it with caressing gentleness.
And, in truth, he fondly loved his engine, which he had driven for
four years. He had been on others, some docile, some jibbers, some
courageous, and some lazy. He was well aware that each had its peculiar
character, and that some were not worth much. So that if he was fond
of this one, it was because it possessed rare qualities, being gentle,
obedient, easy to set in motion, and gifted with even and lasting
speed, thanks to its good vaporisation.
Some pretended that if this locomotive started off so easily, it was
due to its excellent tyres, and particularly to the perfect regulation
of its slide-valves; and that if a large quantity of steam could be
produced with little fuel, it was owing to the quality of the copper in
the tubes, and to the satisfactory arrangement of the boiler.
But he knew there was something else; for other engines, built
identically in the same way, put together with the same care, displayed
none of the qualities of this one. There was the soul, so to say, to
be taken into account, the mystery of the fabrication, that peculiar
something which the hazard of the hammer gives to the metal, which the
skill of the fitter conveys to the various pieces--the personality of
the engine, its life.
So he loved La Lison, which started quickly and stopped sharp, like a
vigorous and docile steed; he loved it because, apart from his fixed
wages, it earned him cash, thanks to the gratuities on the consumption
of fuel. Its excellent vaporisation effected, indeed, considerable
economy in coal. It merited but one reproach, that of requiring too
much oil. The cylinders, particularly, devoured unreasonable quantities
of this liquid. They had a constant appetite which nothing could
appease. In vain had he sought to moderate it. The engine lost breath
at once. Its constitution required all this nourishment. Ultimately, he
had made up his mind to tolerate the gluttonous passion, just as the
eyes are closed to a vice in people, who, in other respects, are full
of qualities.
Whilst the fire roared, and La Lison was gradually getting up steam,
Jacques walked round and round the engine, inspecting it in all its
parts, endeavouring to discover why, in the morning, it should have put
away more oil than usual. And he found nothing amiss. The locomotive
was bright and clean, presenting that delightful appearance which
indicates the good, tender care of the driver. He could be seen wiping,
and furbishing the metal incessantly, particularly at the end of a
journey, in the same manner as smoking steeds are whisked down after a
long run. He rubbed it vigorously, taking advantage of its being warm,
to remove stains and foam more perfectly.
He never played tricks with his locomotive, but kept it at an even
pace, avoiding getting late, which would necessitate disagreeable
leaps of speed. And the two had gone on so well together, that not
once in four years had he lodged a complaint in the register at the
depôt, where drivers book their requests for repairs--the bad drivers,
drunkards or idlers, who are ever at variance with their engines. But
truly, on this particular evening, he had the consumption of oil
at heart; and there was also another feeling, something vague and
profound, which he had not hitherto experienced--anxiety, distrust, as
if he could not rely on his engine, and wanted to make sure that it was
not going to behave badly on the journey.
Pecqueux was not there, and when he at length appeared, with flushed
countenance, after lunching with a friend, Jacques flew into a rage.
Habitually the two men agreed very well, in that long companionship,
extending from one end of the line to the other, jolted side by side,
silent, united by the same labour and the same dangers.
Although Jacques was the junior of the other man by more than a decade,
he showed himself paternal for his fireman, shielding his vices,
allowing him to sleep for an hour when too far gone in drink; and the
latter repaid him for this kindness with canine devotedness. Apart from
his drunkenness, he was an excellent workman, thoroughly broken to his
calling. It must be said, that he also loved La Lison, which sufficed
for a good understanding between the two. And Pecqueux, taken aback at
being so roughly welcomed, looked at Jacques with increased surprise,
when he heard him grumbling his doubts about the engine.
"What is the matter? Why, it goes beautifully!" said the fireman.
"No, no," answered Jacques; "I am uneasy."
And, notwithstanding each part of the locomotive being in good
condition, he continued to toss his head. He turned the handles,
assured himself that the safety-valve worked well, got on to the
frame-plate, and attended to the grease-boxes of the cylinders himself;
while the fireman wiped the dome, where a few slight traces of rust
remained. Nothing was wrong with the sand-rod. All this should have set
his mind at ease.
The fact was, that La Lison no longer stood alone in his heart. Another
tenderness was growing there for that slim, and very fragile creature,
whom he continued to see beside him on the bench in the garden of the
square. A girl so gentle, so caressing, so weak in character, and who
needed love and protection. Never, when some involuntary cause had
put him behind time, and he had sent his engine along at a speed of
sixty miles an hour, never had he thought of the danger the passengers
might be incurring. And, now, the mere idea of taking this woman back
to Havre, this woman whom he almost detested in the morning, whom he
brought up with annoyance, caused him great anxiety, and made him dread
an accident, in which he imagined her wounded by his fault, and dying
in his arms. The distrusted La Lison would do well to behave properly,
if it wished to maintain the reputation of making good speed.
It struck six. Jacques and Pecqueux climbed up to the foot-plate, and
the latter, opening the exhaust-pipe at a sign from his chief, a coil
of white steam filled the black engine-house. Then, responding to
the handle of the regulator which the driver slowly turned, La Lison
began to move, left the depôt, and whistled for the line to be opened.
Almost immediately the engine was able to enter the Batignolles tunnel,
but at the Pont de l'Europe it had to wait; and it was not until the
regulation time that the pointsman sent it on to the 6.30 express, to
which a couple of porters firmly secured it.
The train was about to leave; it wanted but five minutes to the
time, and Jacques leant over the side, surprised at not perceiving
Séverine among the swarm of passengers. He felt certain she would not
seat herself without first of all coming to the engine. At last she
appeared, behind time, almost running. And, as he had foreseen, she
passed all along the train and only stopped when beside the locomotive,
her face crimson, exulting with joy.
Her little feet went on tiptoe, her face rose up, laughing.
"Do not be alarmed!" she exclaimed. "Here I am."
He also laughed, happy to see her there, and answered:
"Ah! very good! That's all right."
But she went on tiptoe again, and resumed, in a lower tone:
"My friend, I am pleased, very pleased. I have had a great piece of
luck. All that I desired."
He understood perfectly, and experienced great pleasure. Then, as she
was running off, she turned round to add, in fun:
"I say, don't you smash me up, now."
And he gaily retorted:
"Oh! what next? No fear!"
But the carriage doors were being slammed. Séverine had only just time
to get in. Jacques, at a signal from the chiefguard, blew the whistle,
and then opened the regulator. They were off. The departure took place
at the same time as that of the tragic train in February, amidst the
same activity in the station, the same sounds, the same smoke. Only it
was still daylight now, a clear crepuscule, infinitely soft. Séverine,
with her head at the window of the door, looked out.
Jacques, standing to the right on La Lison, warmly clothed in woollen
trousers and vest, wearing spectacles with cloth sides, fastened behind
his head under his cap, henceforth never took his eyes off the line,
leaning at every minute outside the cab so as to see better. Roughly
shaken by the vibration, of which he was not even conscious, his right
hand rested on the reversing-wheel, like that of a pilot on the wheel
of the helm; and he manœuvred it with a movement that was imperceptible
and continuous, moderating, accelerating the rapidity; while, with his
left hand, he never ceased sounding the whistle, for the exit from
Paris is difficult, and beset with pitfalls.
He whistled at the level crossings, at the stations, at the great
curves. A red light having appeared in the distance, as daylight
vanished, he for a long time inquired if the road was free, and
then passed like lightning. It was only from time to time that he
cast a glance at the steam-gauge, turning the injector-wheel as soon
as the pressure reached ten kilogrammes. But it was always to the
permanent way that his eyes returned, bent on observing its smallest
peculiarities, and with such attention, that he saw nothing else, and
did not even feel the wind blowing a tempest. The steam-gauge falling,
he opened the door of the fire-box, raising the bars; and Pecqueux,
accustomed to a gesture, understood at once. He broke up coal with his
hammer, and with his shovel put on an even layer. The scorching heat
burnt the legs of both of them. Then, the door once closed again, they
had to face the current of icy air.
When night closed in, Jacques became doubly prudent. Rarely had he
found La Lison so obedient. He handled the engine as he pleased, with
the absolute will of the master; and yet he did not relax his severity,
but treated it as a tamed animal that must always be distrusted.
There, behind his back, in the train, whirling along at express speed,
he saw a delicate, confiding, smiling face. He felt a slight shiver.
With a firmer hand he grasped the reversing-wheel, piercing the
increasing darkness with fixed eyes, in search of red lights. After the
embranchments at Asnières and Colombes, he breathed a little. As far as
Mantes all went well, the line was as a sheet of glass, and the train
rolled along at ease.
After Mantes he had to urge La Lison on, so that it might ascend
a rather steep incline, almost half a league long. Then, without
slackening speed, he ran down the gentle slope to the Rolleboise
tunnel, just about two miles in length, which he negotiated in barely
three minutes. There remained but one more tunnel, that of La Roule,
near Gaillon, before the station of Sotteville--a spot to be feared,
for the complication of the lines, the continual shunting proceeding
there, and the constant obstruction, made it exceedingly dangerous.
All the strength of his being lay in his eyes which watched, in his
hand which drove; and La Lison, whistling and smoking, dashed through
Sotteville at full steam, only to stop at Rouen, whence it again set
out, a trifle calmer, ascending more slowly the incline that extends as
far as Malaunay.
A very clear moon had risen, shedding a white light, by which Jacques
was able to distinguish the smallest bushes, and even the stones on
the roads, in their rapid flight. As he cast a glance to the right, on
leaving the tunnel of Malaunay, disturbed at the shadow cast across
the line by a great tree, he recognised the out-of-the-way corner,
the field full of bushes, whence he had witnessed the murder. The
wild, deserted country flew past, with its continuous hills, its
raw black patches of copses, its ravaged desolation. Next, at La
Croix-de-Maufras, beneath the motionless moon, abruptly appeared the
vision of the atrociously melancholy house set down aslant in its
abandonment and distress, with its shutters everlastingly closed.
And without understanding why, Jacques, this time again, and more
vigorously than on previous occasions, felt a tightening at the heart
as if he was passing before his doom.
But immediately afterwards, his eyes carried another image away. Near
the house of the Misards, against the gate at the level crossing, stood
Flore. He now saw her at this spot at each of his journeys, awaiting,
on the watch for him. She did not move, she simply turned her head
so as to be able to get a longer view of him in the flash that bore
him away. Her tall silhouette stood out in black, against the white
light, her golden locks alone being illumined by the pale gold of the
celestial body.
And Jacques, having urged on La Lison, to make it scale the ascent at
Motteville, allowed the engine breathing time across the plateau of
Bolbec. But he finally sent it on again, from Saint-Romain to Harfleur,
down the longest incline on the line, a matter of three leagues, which
the engines devour at the gallop of mad cattle sniffing the stable.
And he was broken down with fatigue at Havre, when, beneath the iron
marquee, full of the uproar and smoke at the arrival, Séverine, before
going up to her rooms, ran to say to him, in her gay and tender manner:
"Thanks. We may see one another to-morrow."